Blind Spot (11 page)

When the light changed, Bernadette ran across the road to Mickey’s Dining Car. She turned and stood on the corner with her back to the restaurant. Where in the hell was she downtown? She got her bearings. Mickey’s was on Seventh Street at St. Peter Street. From which building was he looking at the diner’s sign? From which window? He was up a few floors. She looked to her right and saw the Minnesota Children’s Museum on the other side of St. Peter Street. No. That would have given him a side view of
FREE PARKING
.

Kitty-corner from the diner was the Ramsey County Juvenile Service Center. A county building would have a lot of ugly institutional furniture. Orange upholstery would fit right in. She considered whether the killer could be young. The murderer’s hands were large, so he would have to be a big teenager. She prayed it wasn’t a kid. At the same time, she had to admit it was an interesting possibility. Archer had pissed off a lot of kids; one could have come after him and then, for some reason or another, ended up at the juvenile center. Not all of what she’d seen through the killer’s eyes made sense with that disturbing scenario, however. What would a woman be doing in bed at a kids’ detention center? Was the woman a teenage girl? The corrections staff wouldn’t let a male be alone with a female in her bedroom—not unless there was some hanky-panky going on. What was that reference book about, then? Was it a kid’s math book? She’d check out the view from the juvenile center.

Making a diagonal dash across the intersection, Bernadette narrowly missed getting slammed by a Suburban. The driver laid on the horn. She stood on the corner and looked at the diner, then turned and looked behind her at the windows dotting the detention center. The angle wasn’t right; he’d been looking at the sign from up high, but facing straight ahead.

The single-story buildings on West Seventh, directly across the street from the diner, were too low. What was behind them on St. Peter? The traffic was heavy again. She waited until she had a green light and crossed back. Bernadette ran down the sidewalk along St. Peter, passing a check-cashing joint, an empty storefront, a Thai restaurant, and a surface parking lot.

There it was, across from the parking lot. A hospital. The woman in bed had been a patient. That explained the institutional furniture. She remembered the cleanness of the cut to the judge’s wrist. Had the amputation been performed by a surgeon or someone else with access to surgical tools? That book or chapter he was reading—
Numbers
—could have been some sort of medical reference, something related to patients’ stats. What about the gesture, reaching out to touch her? Maybe he was a medical professional screwing around with a patient.

She crossed against the light. What street was she on now? She figured it should be Eighth. She checked the street sign. Of course it wasn’t Eighth. That would make sense, and the streets in St. Paul never made sense. This was Exchange Street. She ran up to the hospital’s front entrance in the middle of the block. As she faced the building, she tipped her head back and took in the full height of the building. She counted five floors. Which one was he on? She thought about calling Garcia and asking for help. Too early, she thought. Could turn into a wild-goose chase. She’d go inside, where there were fewer distractions, try to find a quiet corner, and take another peek through the killer’s eyes before she went running up and down hospital hallways.

Thunder clapped over her head and she felt a few raindrops. She yanked open one of the glass doors and stepped into the lobby. Behind her, the skies opened up and a curtain of water started falling.

Inside, on the right, she saw a gift shop and coffee stand, both closed. In front of her were a couple of couches. To the left was a larger waiting area. She stepped farther inside and scanned the larger room. More couches. End tables. Coffee tables. A fake fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases nearly empty of books. One wall of the room was made up of windows that looked out onto the horseshoe drive at the hospital entrance.

A lone dark-haired man was on one of the couches facing the windows. He was sitting down with his feet up on one of the coffee tables. Dressed in blue scrubs, he had an open book on his lap. She studied his hands. They were big enough and hairy enough. Reaching inside her coat, she put her hand on the holstered gun tucked into the waist of her jeans. He looked up from his reading to check his wristwatch and glanced out the windows. She figured he was waiting for a ride to pull up. What was he reading while waiting? He raised the volume closer to his face, and she saw the cover didn’t belong to a medical reference. The book, by Anne Tyler, was
The Accidental Tourist.
She exhaled and took her hand off her gun. Did she really think the murderer would be sitting there waiting for her just inside the front doors?

She walked over to a set of café tables parked in front of the dark gift shop, eased herself into one of the chairs, pulled off her gloves, and dropped them on top of the table. Dipping her hand into her pocket, she pulled out the bag with the ring. The idea of fishing out the package containing the strands of rope was tempting, but Bernadette decided to go with the known quantity. This was going to be one of those occasions when she didn’t have time to focus. She hoped she could still get a bead on him.

Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, she tipped the bag. The ring fell into her right palm. She shut her eyes tight, closed her hand around the band, and said the five words. While she sat in her personal darkroom, the sounds of the hospital and the city surrounding it filled her ears: Gurney bumping down a hallway. Female voice paging X-ray. Distant sirens. Rumbling thunder. Music. Bob Dylan on the radio. Early Dylan. Perfect accompaniment for the downpour outside. “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.” At the same time, the hospital smells invaded her nostrils and crawled down the back of her throat: Antiseptic solution. Cafeteria cooking. Fried something with onions. Coffee, strong and black.

The coffee and guitars began to fade.

Those big hairy hands again. They’re holding an open book while he’s standing. Not the same book, though. A smaller one. Another reference of some sort? She can’t make out the details. He’s turning the page. Again, the words are too small for her to read. No big chapter headings this time. Sitting down with the book. Sitting down on what? A chair. There are two more of those chairs in front of him. What color? Cough-syrup orange, like before. He has to be in the same room, the woman’s room. He’s turning the book pages again. Lifting his arm to his eyes. Hairy wrist with a watch wrapped around it. As with the wall clock, she can’t make out the numbers, only the position of the hands. Working in real time. Good. He sets the open book down on his lap. That blue on his legs could be scrubs. Scrubs or jeans. Now he’s standing again, the open book in front of his face.

Suddenly it all went black. A light switch flipped off. She waited with her eyes closed. Waited. Nothing. Still black. He’d fallen asleep or passed out or died or—most likely—the connection was broken because she was wiped out. Her hand tightened around the ring. “Return to me,” she whispered. Nothing. Might as well be sitting in a closet with a bag over her head. She was wasting time. She opened her eyes but still saw black. She dropped the ring in the bag, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Her eyes cleared. Bernadette shoved the bag back in her pocket. She stood up, plucked her gloves off the table, and pulled them on. Time to do it the regular way.

Her eyes darted between the hospital signs and arrows pointing this way and that. Admitting. Cashier. Cafeteria. Chapel. Information Desk. Three different sets of elevators. She headed down the main hallway that sliced through the lobby level and found a bank of elevators on her left, opposite the information desk. She punched the
UP
button and walked back and forth three times in front of the doors while she waited for one of them to open. A middle one parted and she got in. Two women in scrubs followed her into the elevator. One pressed the fourth-floor button. Bernadette raised her hand and hesitated, mulling over her strategy. She’d start at the top and work her way down. The south side of the hospital had patient rooms facing
FREE PARKING
. She’d narrow her search down to the correct floor on the south side by studying the angle of its window views. After that it would be a matter of poking her head into each room and looking for one containing a blond female patient with a dark-haired male in attendance.

“Need help finding something?” asked one of the scrubs.

“I’m good.” Bernadette pressed the fifth-floor button. While she waited for her floor to come up, she took in the killer’s emotional state. He was tranquil. At peace. That pissed her off—and worried her. He’d just murdered two people, and he was as relaxed as someone coming out of a spa.

Eleven

Bernadette quickly eliminated the top level of the hospital: it was up too high. She could see not only
FREE PARKING
from the windows on the fifth floor, but the rest of the sign—
MICKEY’S DINING CAR
—as well. She took the stairs down one level, found an empty patient room at the end of the hallway, and slipped inside. She stepped up to the windows and opened the drapes. Through the downpour, Bernadette looked out onto the neon and streetlights and car lights of downtown. The fourth floor was a hit; the sign and the twin church steeples appeared as she’d seen them through his eyes.

She went outside the room and ran her eyes up and down the corridor. She didn’t want to get stopped and have to explain herself or be forced to whip out her ID. If she could help it, she didn’t even want to ask anyone a question. This lead could still fizzle. At one end of the hallway, she saw a male technician bent over a hospital cart. At the other end were a couple of nurses standing next to each other in front of the nurses’ station. The women were immersed in conversation.